On cue, Annabelle held up her hand in a salute.

  Yas nodded, seeming more confident. “Okay. I’ll go.” Then she looked down at the pasta sauce she’d spilled on her blouse. “Oh crap, what am I going to wear?”

  “Want help picking an outfit?” I offered, only half joking.

  “No offense, but from you? Absolutely not.” Yasmin got up from the table. “Thanks for dinner, Annabelle.”

  The ghost smiled warmly. “You’re welcome.”

  As she left the kitchen, Yasmin turned back to us with a sly look on her face. “Don’t wait up.”

  ***

  We settled on the back deck, me drinking wine and Annabelle sitting with an empty glass in front of her, pretending. I’d bought a citronella candle from the general store after my interlude at Big Mike’s, along with more food for Annabelle to cook for the two of us. Yasmin wasn’t in a hurry to leave the house, and with Annabelle cooking, I’d eaten better in the last few days than I had in ages.

  After a few minutes of comfortable silence, I said, “I have something to show you, by the way.”

  “Oh?” Annabelle clasped her hands around her empty glass.

  I returned to the den to grab the guitar and songbook. When I got back to the table, I opened the book to a page I’d dog-eared, then held it open with the wine bottle. Running my hands over the page, I mumbled the song to myself as I figured out the rhythm, then started strumming.

  Annabelle looked confused, then impressed.

  I wagged my eyebrows at her as I got into a rhythm, and said, “Told you I could play.”

  She grinned. “I didn’t doubt it for a second, dear.” Annabelle watched, her entire body leaning toward me. “Though I’m sure your music is far more ‘hip’ than anything I’m familiar with.”

  “Nah, I think you’ll know this one.”

  I couldn’t meet her eyes and sing at the same time. If I did, I’d just get lost. So, I glanced down at the book and steeled myself. Doing my best to impersonate a ’60s teen pop idol, I sang the song from Shrek about believing in love. It felt ridiculous.

  But Annabelle’s eyes went as round as saucers, and when she realized what song it was, she let out a quiet, “Oh.” The intensity of her ghostly glow increased as she watched me and hummed along, terribly off-key.

  I wasn’t a great singer, but we flipped through the book of 1960s songs and I played a selection of bubblegum pop while Annabelle swayed and clapped beside me. She sang along and occasionally managed to harmonize with me, though not through any actual talent on her part. My throat would be sore tomorrow, but I sung the night away. Everything faded except the instrument in my hands, the ghost by my side, and the music we made together.

  Chapter 12

  I barely saw Yasmin at all the next day. After grabbing a quick cup of tea from Annabelle, she retreated to the shed and spent hours in there doing who-knows-what with Agatha’s magic book. Nate and Old Pete finished the electrical work around noon, and then Nate returned to the house to bring Yasmin a sandwich for lunch.

  My own stomach was starting to growl when the doorbell rang. I stretched and closed my laptop, grateful for the break. When I reached the hallway, I realized that someone—Nate, most likely—had fixed the doorbell so that it no longer sounded like someone was stepping on a frog.

  “What a lovely day for magic!” Miranda exclaimed when I opened the door. She was wearing maroon from head to toe today, including what looked like red velvet slippers. Her fingernails were painted to match. Under her arm, she held an old book—one that looked suspiciously familiar.

  I let her in, then said, “You have a date with Yasmin, I assume?”

  She nodded. “We’re making great strides, Gibson.”

  “Great strides toward what, exactly?” I walked with her through the house and out to the back deck, where we looked at the messy garden.

  But Miranda demurred. “Oh, I shouldn’t say. It’s still early stages, and . . . I think we’d best have that conversation together. The three of us.”

  “O-kay,” I said, but she was already down the steps. She opened the shed door and hugged Yasmin enthusiastically. I could just barely see Yasmin’s face as she greeted Miranda. Her eyes crinkled in a smile, and she laughed easily at something the older woman said.

  “Weird sisters,” I muttered, pulling the phrase from somewhere deep in my brain. “I think it’s time I got the fuck out of this house . . . It’s definitely time to stop talking to myself.”

  ***

  On my walk downtown, I passed the turnoff to Big Mike’s just as Adam and his crew were speeding in the opposite direction. I raised my hand in a wave, and the four of them waved back. One honked a bike horn. They stopped before turning to go home.

  “My dad says you’re a wicked guitar player,” Adam said. “Don’t you have a bike?”

  “Nah.”

  The kids looked at each other as if I’d just said I’d been abducted by aliens.

  “Stay here!” Adam dismounted, letting his bike fall to the ground, and dashed down the lane that led to his house. “Make her stay!” he called over his shoulder.

  His three friends, grubby from playing whatever games they’d been playing in the forest, linked hands and formed a wall to prevent me from leaving. I put my hands up like I would if I was being apprehended. “What’s going on?”

  “You can’t be here without a bike,” one of the kids said. He was taller than the others, gangly and glasses-wearing. The others nodded.

  “I think it’s illegal,” another one whispered.

  I laughed, but the kids remained serious. A few moments later, Adam returned, riding a bigger bike than the one he’d left behind.

  “Here.” Adam dismounted and held the handlebars steady. “It’s Sage’s, but they have, like, two other ones, which is not fair, by the way.”

  “I can’t take Sage’s bike!” I said.

  “Sure you can.” Adam shrugged. “I’ll tell them you borrowed it.”

  “But—”

  Before I could protest further, Adam picked up his original bike from the ground, hopped on it, and the crew headed off. “Later!”

  “I . . . Thank you!” I yelled at the kids. Then I stared down at the bike. I liked to think of myself as fearless but even I wasn’t so brave as to ride a bike in New York City, so it had been literal decades since I’d ridden one. Was remembering how to ride a bike actually like remembering how to ride a bike?

  After staring for a good thirty seconds, I summoned the courage to sling my leg over the center bar and try it.

  ***

  Sweating and breathless but alive, I made it downtown. Biking was, regrettably, much faster than walking. But I’m sure I looked far less cool doing it with a white-knuckle grip on a set of wheels made for a teenager.

  I had a turkey sandwich at a brewhouse called Mary’s. The food was expensive but decent, and I finally found a beer that didn’t taste like Pine-Sol cleaning solution. I sat by myself on the patio and watched the ferry come in. A light breeze tickled my cheek, but my hair was short enough not to fly in my eyes.

  The experience was . . . not bad. One pleasant lunch wasn’t going to convince me that this was the greatest place ever. But . . . not bad.

  Reluctant to return to the house and work, I pedaled around the island, joined by throngs of tourists enjoying the last bit of their summer vacations before returning to real life. Slowly getting the hang of my borrowed ride, I biked through a neighborhood of flower-lined porches in front of mini-mansions and the expansive lawns of a resort before the path started to climb. As I passed a lookout called Lover’s Leap, I resolutely looked ahead, not stopping. I was having a pleasant day and was not about to consider the possibility that Annabelle leaped to her death from this spot two hundred years ago.

  Passing Arch Rock, I glanced up at the rocks and shrugged, then turned in toward the intense greenery of the island’s interior following the signs to Fort Holmes.

  The original British fort was located on the highest point on the island and surrounded by the dense forest of the state park. The sounds of birdcalls became louder as I got further from the tourists cycling the perimeter. To get to the fort, I had to hike my borrowed bike up a steep dirt road lined by trees on both sides. A few kids passed by on bicycles, but otherwise, I was left alone with my thoughts. When I reached the reconstructed building, I was breathless from the climb.

  The sight of the fort itself was anticlimactic. It was nothing more than a dilapidated two-story wooden building behind a fence at the top of the hill, surrounded by a grassy field. I supposed it made sense that the American fort was far more imposing than the British one, given that it had been occupied for much longer.

  I entered the building and gazed around the sparsely furnished room, skimming the informational plaques, not entirely sure what I was looking for.

  While I was learning what a redoubt was, my phone buzzed.

  Brooke sent a video of a rehearsal. I recognized the space, a tiny studio in the Village. The band was playing “He Knows You Want His Blood (So Don’t Give It To Him),” but even through the terrible sound of the cell phone video, I could tell it wasn’t right. Every member of the band was out of sync. After eight seconds of the song, the video cut to a selfie view of Brooke making a face that said, “Can you believe this shit?” Then she zoomed in on a guitar player I didn’t recognize. He royally fucked the main intro chord progression, then left his cell phone on and stopped the rehearsal to answer it.

  After the video, she sent a text saying, “u have got to come back Gibson I cant deal with this shit anymre”

  Laughing, I sent a series of emojis in reply. She sent me back a GIF, and I responded with a kissy face. In the ten seconds it took her to like the text, I worried it’d been too much. Brooke and I weren’t an item, but she flirted with me often enough that I knew she was interested. Before I left for Michigan, I would have grasped for every crumb from her like a drowning man grasping for a life raft.

  I put my phone away and peered through the slatted window as if looking out for an impending American invasion. None of the signs mentioned anything about women at the fort, which was hardly surprising. I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, shoved my hands in my pockets, and exhaled.

  “Yep,” I said to no one. What was I looking for in this museum? A simple explanation on a sign about why I had an English ghost in my house? Come on.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Brooke said, “got a gig at The Crowbar on the 31st, some bigwig money bags are coming to see if they want to fund studio time for us.” She added seven dollar sign emojis, then added, “u better be back by then cuz this guy sux”

  My heart started pounding as fast as it had while hiking up the hill to get here. Studio time? The thirty-first? That was only a little more than a week away. I left her on read and walked outside the building, willing my heart to slow down.

  Back in the sunshine, I looked at the reconstruction. It just looked like a sad, old wooden building where a bunch of English kids camped out through brutal Great Lakes winters.

  I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. Why was I looking for remnants of a ghost when I should be rehearsing? Or actually trying to sell my house so I could return to real life?

  Before I could convince myself not to, I sent a thumbs-up emoji in reply to Brooke. I could get back by the thirty-first. Somehow. Just needed to convince my cousin not to sue me and sell my house. No problem.

  Exiting the fort, I spotted a sign that read “Post Cemetery Fort Mackinac.” I hesitated. The afternoon was waning, and I still had work to do. I didn’t need to repeat the list of things I should be doing instead of chasing ghosts. A chilly breeze sent goosebumps running down my arms.

  And it felt wrong, somehow. What would Annabelle say if she found out I went looking for her body?

  I couldn’t help but feel a pull, though. As if seeing a stone with her name on it might connect us. If she was buried here, I could touch the ground and feel something solid of hers beneath my fingers.

  I turned back the way I came.

  ***

  Yasmin and Miranda stayed in the shed until night fell. When Annabelle and I brought them dinner, both seemed legitimately surprised at how long they’d been working. In front of them were two open spell books and a stack of yellow legal notepads with scribbles. They had cleared a space above the desk and made it into a murder board of sorts, pinning notes and drawings to it. All they needed was a spool of red thread to connect whatever conspiracies they were uncovering.

  “Bring these back,” I said as I handed over the plates of food. “The last thing we need is mice out here.”

  Both women nodded, then turned back to their work. Annabelle and I shrugged, then went back to the main house to eat at the table.

  All through dinner, Annabelle’s smiles were flirtier than usual. She watched as I ate, making encouraging noises and asking me to describe the texture of the food. I tried but blushed under her scrutiny, stuttering until I made her giggle. When the dishes were done, she asked me to play her a song before bed. We sat in the living room, carefully avoiding the pink sofa, and I tuned the guitar while I thought about what to sing.

  “Got it,” I said at last. Annabelle sat across from me, hands on her lap, her feet tucked away and almost invisible.

  I sang “Our Day Will Come,” a song I knew from Amy Winehouse’s cover. I guessed that Annabelle might have a version of it on one of her records, too. This time, I had the courage to look at her as I sang.

  Annabelle didn’t join in. She just watched me, her full lips parted in rapt attention. Her eyes glistened in the low light of the not-quite-full moon. When the song ended, she didn’t say anything. She just smiled at me like I’d parted the Red Sea. Or brought Lazarus back from the dead. I knew I was a good player, but she made me feel like my fingers worked miracles on the strings.

  I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling my cheeks flush. I’d performed on stage hundreds of times, both solo and with a group, but I’d never felt like this. Like I was truly being seen.

  When we said goodnight, she followed me up the stairs. At the third-floor landing, Annabelle remained visible for a few seconds longer, lingering in the periphery of my vision.

  “Goodnight,” she said softly.

  “Goodnight, Marley.”

  I couldn’t make myself go to sleep. The smile on Annabelle’s face haunted me. The same kind of nervous energy thrummed through me that I felt before a show, especially one where I played a new song. The sort of fuck-it feeling that makes you do brave things. Or stupid things.

  I put on a barely there bra and the best pair of panties I’d brought to Michigan. Then I sniffed under my arms. Could Annabelle smell me? She smelled her tea in the morning, so, yeah, she probably could. I splashed some water under my arms and wished I’d brought perfume, even though I normally never wore it.

  Satisfied, I pulled Annabelle’s chair closer to the bed. It was within arm’s reach of the mattress now. If she showed up, there would be no question as to why.

  I climbed into bed, pulled the sheet so that it barely covered my waist, and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  The sense of her was intense. It hit me a split second before she appeared, prim as ever, standing in the corner. Something was different—I had just seen Annabelle not five minutes earlier on the landing, but in those five minutes, she’d changed her clothes. She was still wearing a gauzy, white blouse but of a different style. This one wasn’t the high-necked number she always wore. It had notched lapels and was unbuttoned to her navel, showing her pale cleavage. If she usually wore a casual Marlene Dietrich look, this was the sultry version.

  Looking down at my own tiny chest and then back up, I said, “See something you like, Marley?”

  Suddenly, she was seated in the chair next to the bed. She hadn’t bothered to walk the three paces it would’ve taken, as if she couldn’t bear to waste a second. A rush of desire coursed through me.

  “I think you know the answer to that, my dear,” Annabelle whispered.

  “Fuck,” I whispered back. She actually wanted me.

  I scooted back on the bed, pulling back the sheets and leaving enough room for another person—or ghost. Positioning my hand deliberately on my thigh, I said, “Do you want to join?”

  Her gaze swept up and down my body, and she had the same hungry look in her eyes that she had when she watched me eat. But she shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not right.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows, the same cold bucket of water crashing over me anytime someone talked about my sexual business being right or wrong. Even though she was two hundred years old, I thought Annabelle was different. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m dead, Gibson. I can’t . . .” Her glow dimmed. “I’m not real.”

  “Come here.” I patted the spot next to me and smiled as she flowed into it. The edges of her didn’t quite touch me, but I could feel the coolness of her. This was probably the closest we’d been since the very first night we met when she helped me fix my head.

  I reached out my hand with my palm facing her. She held out her own hand, placing it carefully to mine. The familiar electric tingles went through my palm and down my arm, causing me to shiver in anticipation. She may be dead, but her touch made my whole body feel alive.

  “I can see you,” I said. “I can certainly hear you.”

  Annabelle smiled at that.

  “I can smell you.”

  “You—”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I can smell you, Marley.” I moved my hand into hers, making her flow through me. Our hands joined as if they were one. “I can’t touch you but I can feel you.”

  Annabelle exhaled. Her breath was cool against my face.

  “Can’t taste you, which is a damn shame.”

  She looked confused, which made me smile. My chest was bursting with the desire to . . . I wasn’t even sure what I wanted; I just knew that I wanted. I moved my hand to her face and carefully cupped her cheek, wishing I could feel the softness of her skin.

 

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